


The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 1

by ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade



Series: The Strategist and the Redhead [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade/pseuds/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade
Summary: This series of fics features an OC that originated from a brief headcanon I wrote in the early days of The Ignis Scientia Estrogen Brigade; they were written out of chronological order, so I apologize for any inconsistencies you might happen to come across. Part 1 is the origin story of how they met.





	1. The Assault

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before the start of in-game events. And no, the redhead doesn't have a name. Sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (Also, to clarify: the color blue -> blue joke -> dirty joke. Happy reading!)

“I could go for an Ebony about now.”

Her temper flares and she sees red as she stumbles forward and down onto the crash mat. He had leveraged her own momentum against her to his advantage, parrying her lance deftly using—of all things—a paltry set of daggers.

But even through the unbridled rage that is currently clouding her sight, the redhead notices something…  _odd._  In the two months since she had been promoted to the Citadel’s interior security detail, he had scarcely said a single word to her other than the usual introductions and academic formalities; her associates had warned her about the spectacled man’s habitual aloofness, so to hear him say anything beyond the customary  _Good morning_ —much less crack a wry quip at her expense—gives her pause.

She picks herself up off the floor and brushes a lock of auburn hair aside to hide her scowl. “It’s rather unfair for one of us to be switching weapons mid-strike, wouldn’t you say?”

He cycles through the arsenal of armaments he has at his disposal without glancing up. “If you are not content with what the lance has to offer, I’m sure Gladio would be happy to introduce you to the finer points of the broadsword.”

She doesn’t have his ability to summon weapons out of thin air; that privilege is reserved solely for the Kingsglaive, as well as the three individuals appointed as royal Crownsguard to the prince. Witnessing the crystal’s magic in the flesh never quite ceases to amaze her, but attempting to defend against its awesome power has admittedly been trying at times—like now, for instance.

She wrinkles her nose as she hefts her own weapon. “No thank you.”

“Too challenging? I’ll concede that broadswords can be rather unwieldy, but they have their advantages.”

“Hardly,” she scoffs. “Gladiolus would be a much better sparring partner if he could train himself to keep his gaze above my neckline.”

He settles back on the lance and tightens his grip around the handle. “All the more reason to approach him. If you know what his weakness is, you’d be remiss not to exploit it.”

She narrows her eyes as she readies herself against his next assault. “And what, might I ask, is  _your_ weakness?”

“I’ll throw you a bone,” he says, tapping the rim of his glasses with a gloved hand. “I can’t see worth a damn.”

She knows not to underestimate him; they don’t call Ignis Scientia  _The Strategist_  without good cause. He is deadly in the field of polearms—and daggers, and magic enhancement, and whatever bloody else he keeps up his leopard-print sleeve—even if he does have to rely on a pair of spectacles to correct his dubious vision. It’s the whole reason she sought out his guidance in the first place; she’d been recruited from the lower echelons of palace security thanks to the promise she showed with a spear, and if the rumors swirling around the fitness center’s locker rooms were to be believed, the man could skewer a Dualhorn and a Thunderoc in the same stroke without even breaking a sweat.

“Duly noted,” she replies, and meets his oncoming lunge with a fierce riposte of her own.

She ought not to have even bothered rising from the mat, because she’s back on the floor again in half a heartbeat, and he’s standing above her adjusting his lenses with an infuriatingly blank expression glued to his features. “None the worse for wear,” he chides. “Shall we start again from the top?”

“What for?” she growls, and brushes aside the hand he has extended out to her. “It seems rather pointless to continue when I can’t even succeed at getting my blade past the tip of your nose.”

“Your mistake is treating a pike like it’s a sword. It’s designed to be a piercing weapon, not a slashing device—few people master the art of the lance without first learning how to properly thrust from the shaft.”

She rises to her feet and barks out a frustrated laugh. “If I thought you had an actual sense of humor, I would’ve taken offense to that.”

He dismisses his weapon and turns on his heel. “And if I thought you were capable of recognizing the color blue when you saw it, I would’ve been more subtle.”

His pointed barb leaves her speechless, and she stands frozen with her mouth agape for several moments as she watches him stride toward the edge of the sparring mat. “I suppose you’re the expert on handling  _shafts_ ,” she finally manages to choke out.

It’s hardly a clever retort; referencing other, more…  _salacious_  palace rumors surrounding the strategist in a foolish attempt at getting under his skin is a disservice to her shrewd intellect. But gossip was often rooted in a seed of truth—the man was scarcely seen outside the company of his fellow Crownsguard—and she isn’t quite sure how she stumbled into this infuriating battle of wits to begin with.

Her insinuation has no discernible effect. “Mum’s the word,” he says, as he treads off toward the locker rooms. “Same time tomorrow?”

As she breaths heavily under the weight of her failed efforts, she ponders whether anyone else within the Citadel’s walls had borne witness to his tongue that was even sharper than his daggers.


	2. The Parry

She comes prepared the next morning; she’s handled a shaft before—forged or otherwise—and she knows now where his vulnerability lies. She thinks she may have been a little overzealous in her frontal assault, so she spent all last night reading up on defensive strategies; her twilight studies in the Citadel’s library have left her more lethargic that she cares to admit, but it’s nothing a stiff cup of Ebony won’t help to rectify before the regularly scheduled slaughter begins in earnest.

But she doesn’t get the chance to indulge in her preferred beverage of choice, because he’s already waiting for her on the sparring mat when she arrives with her lance tucked under one arm. The  _clink-clink_  sound of weapons being conjured and reconjured echoes throughout the fitness center’s vaulted ceilings, until he makes his selection—a magic flask, curiously enough—and turns to face her without so much as a proper military salute.

A more undiscerning person might have assumed the Crownsguard also had the ability to warp-strike like the prince, because he crosses the distance between them in less time than it takes for her to blink. But she knows her eyes are not playing tricks on her—she has seen the definition of his tightly-coiled hamstrings rippling beneath his trousers—and raises her lance in an attempt to thwart his lighting-quick charge.

She blames her slow reflexes on the lack of caffeine in her system when she’s half a heartbeat too late; he’s already two steps behind her, the flask in his hand pressed firmly against the small of her back. The burning sensation of raw firepower captured in a bottle instantly sends her careening to the crash mat; her weapon escapes her fingertips and clatters to the ground, and she recoils angrily like a caged Sabertusk as she springs to her feet.

“A polearm is rather sluggish against lightweight consumables,” he comments, “but it was an admirable effort nonetheless.”

She smothers the last of the flames that lick at the hem of her tunic and takes a deep breath to quell her rising pulse. “You’re too generous.”

“On the contrary. Don’t think I didn’t notice your true intentions.”

She hesitates as she moves for her wayward weapon; indeed, her parry had a secondary, more nuanced effect. Because when she went to guard against his superior speed—despite being thrown humiliatingly to the floor—she had been able to roughly gauge the distance between the business end of her lance and the circumference of his reach.

_He’s certainly earned the nickname_ , she thinks, and resumes a defensive posture. “I suppose the error was mine to presume I could pull the wool over your eyes.”

“You won’t need Garula fibers to blind me if you can pry these spectacles off my nose.” He switches weaponry once again, and is now wielding a dagger in each hand. “From the top.”

He’s as fast as his last advance—perhaps faster, if it were even possible—and she has but a nanosecond to groan internally at her own folly before her knees are buckling under his strategically placed backswing. It’s only a small measure of mercy that she managed to maintain a hold of her weapon this time around, and she reestablishes her grip over the shaft as she staggers to her feet.

But the rough estimate she had tabulated earlier is more precise now, and she’s feeling a little more confident in her chances of landing a strike. “Again,” she pants.

Two more times he fells her within moments—once with a halbert, the other with a flask of lightning—and two more times her calculations grow closer to exactness. On his third pass, he opts for a lance identical to hers. “All else being equal,” he quips.

He’s on her again in an instant, but she resists the urge to deflect his blow and instead falls back a step to allow his forward motion to carry him past her. Only then does she tilt her staff to the side nearest his right temple; he jerks his head around without disturbing his momentum and brings his own lance to bear. “Too slow—”

But she isn’t aiming for his forehead like he predicted; she was merely hoping to graze a few tawny hairs above his ear, and his sudden neck twitch positions the hinge of his glasses right up against the tip of her blade. She kicks at the base of her weapon with a booted toe and—using her dominant hand as a fulcrum—catapults his spectacles clean off his face.

_Weakness_ , she grudgingly surmises as her jaw hits the mat with an audible  _thud_ , is entirely subjective; even with his sight impaired, he had managed to correct his maneuver and appropriate it into a reverse thrust that had landed squarely between her shoulder blades. This time, she resigns herself to wallowing in pain on the floor for several seconds, until the view of his shoelaces materializes in her burry vision.

“That’s it,” he says, and drops to the ground beside her.

“What’s it?” she mutters sarcastically. “Have you come up with a new  _recipe_?”

It’s only when she pushes herself to her knees and glances over at him that she realizes she has never seen his face without his glasses before. “No,” he chuckles. “Targeting my spectacles—that displayed an impressive amount of ingenuity.”

His cheekbones are more chiseled than she was expecting; she supposes there’s something about wearing the equivalent of two magnifying lenses over one’s eyes that rounds the features a bit. “You knew I was going to try something,” she counters. “Why would you even let me get within twenty feet of you if you had ranged weapons at your disposal?”

“Does the probability of oncoming traffic ever stop anyone from jaywalking?” He helps her to her feet and dismisses his lance. “I took a careless risk. It clearly didn’t pay off quite the way I would’ve liked.”

“Perhaps you and I have contradictory definitions of the word ‘clearly’.  _I_  was the one eating the mat stuffing, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I told you, I can’t see worth a damn. Had you been a Voretooth, I very likely would’ve been formally introducing myself to the Draconian by now.”

More sentences strung together in one sitting; more silly quips being dished out in jest. If the redhead wasn’t careful, she might begin to erroneously presume the man had a  _personality_.

“I loath to steal your catchphrase,” she says, as she stretches out the knots he left behind in her shoulders, “but I really could go for an Ebony about now. I missed the window of opportunity to pour myself a cup before you unleashed your scholarly wrath on me.”

“I’m happy to see at least one other person within the entire constituency of Insomnia has an appreciation for the perfect coffee bean.” He retrieves his spectacles from their final resting place and returns them to the bridge of his nose. “Although you’ll have to walk all the way over to the cafeteria, since the fitness center’s lounge only has offerings of watered-down Coeurl excrement.”

She recalls to mind his bare face unencumbered by corrective lenses, wondering what it might look like in a more relaxed setting and not clenched in concentration under his efforts at knocking her senseless. “Care to join me?”

He hesitates as he moves to exit the sparring mat, and for a brief moment appears to ruminate over her offer. “Another time, perhaps,” he says finally. “I still have more fish to fry, and my recipes won’t write themselves.”

 


	3. The Riposte

_TWO-HUNDRED TWENTY-ONE THUNDEROCS HIDE IN RAVATOGH’S DUNES SHELTERED TOWARD RESPECTIVE ELECTRICAL ENTITIES TILL MIDNIGHT_

It requires an embarrassing amount of mental gymnastics on her part to decipher the puzzle he leaves on her Citadel-issued cellular later that morning; she somehow knows it’s from him, although how he even acquired her number in the first place was another mystery entirely. When she does finally crack the riddle, however, she fully expects the evening to take a turn toward the peculiar.

Which is ultimately how she finds herself standing outside the address encoded in the message, at the precise time indicated:  _221 T.H.I.R.D.S.T.R.E.E.T.—MIDNIGHT._  She is hesitant to play along with this silly game of his, but something about the extensive precautions he took to encrypt his message warrants further investigation. She takes a deep breath, smooths down her skirt— _Why did I choose a skirt?_  she wonders—and rings the doorbell to an unassuming apartment located two miles from the Citadel’s walls.

The strategist doesn’t even offer a formal greeting before he is whisking her inside and locking the door behind her. “My apologies,” he says in a low voice. “There’s only a brief window of time before the change of guard is finalized.”

_Peculiar_ , she decides, is a massive understatement;  _utterly_  and  _baffling_  are the correct adjectives she was looking for. “Change of guard? What in Astrals are you talking about?”

“There are two guard stations situated near the parking lot,” he explains. “They switch off every four hours. It takes them about ten minutes to complete the protocol until they’re back on their respective watches.”

He might as well be speaking in divine tongues, for all she can understand him. “Why are there guards stationed outside your apartment?”

“Because of the crown prince, of course. He lives three doors down.”

Her hand goes to her mouth, and her thoughts suddenly veer toward her career; specifically, she envisions it torpedoing into oblivion if she were to be caught prowling the royal residence under highly suspicious circumstances in the dead of night. “He didn’t _see_ me, did he?”

He snorts softly as he moves into the kitchen. “Highly unlikely. It would take the Archaean himself to pry Noct from his bed after he’s shut down for the evening.”

As fast as the wheels are turning in her mind, she is still unable to make heads or tails of what he is telling her. “Is that why you live so far from the Citadel? Because the prince resides all the way out here?”

He nods from behind a kettle warming on the stovetop. “Truth be told, it would be significantly easier on everyone if he would agree to move back into the palace. But, he understandably cherishes his freedom.”

She finally tears her eyes away from him long enough to take a proper gander around the living room; she isn’t quite sure what she had expected, but the austereness of the space seems to add up to what little she knows about the man. “Are you very close to the prince?”

The clinking of ceramics being retrieved from a cabinet echoes off the sparse walls. “I did his laundry for many years, so I suppose as close as two friends can be—short of scrubbing his back in the bathtub, at least.” She then hears him chuckle. “And before you ask, I only did it the one time. He’d had a nasty encounter with a Cockatrice, and was having trouble reaching behind his shoulders before the petrification wore off.”

The aroma of freshly-brewed coffee circulating in the air works wonders to take the edge off the worst of her bewilderment, and she feigns a gasp. “A personal anecdote, coming from the lips of The Strategist himself? I never thought I’d survive your sparring sessions long enough to see the day.”

He returns to the living room with a cup of Ebony in each hand. “Yes. Well. We all have our more…  _perturbing_  secrets.”

“Speaking of secrets,” she says carefully, “are you going to tell me why you summoned me all the way here out of the blue like this?”

He then sets one of the mugs down on a small coffee table in the center of the room, claiming the other for himself as he settles in on a sofa. “It was hardly out of the blue—you asked me this morning if I wanted to join you for coffee, and I deferred your invitation in favor of a later date. Consider this as me cashing in on my rain check.”

She peers through the nearest window and out at the pitch black darkness. “At midnight?”

“There was a guard change at eight, but Noct likely would’ve been sitting out on the front porch playing King’s Knight around then.” He sips nonchalantly at his beverage and raises a spectacled eyebrow. “Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to the other fish bait if they caught wind of me showing even the slightest bit of nepotism to one of my pupils anywhere on palace grounds.”

Come to think of it, she can’t seem to recall ever seeing the strategist in the company of anyone save Prince Noctis and the two other men appointed as his personal retinue; Ignis Scientia regularly advised other members of palace security like herself in the art of warfare, but outside his role as tutor, he could generally be found browsing the morning newspaper and nursing a cup of coffee at a table for one. “Is that what you call your students?  _Fish_  bait?”

Another sip; another wayward eyebrow. “I suppose that would be an insult to the food chain.”

The last of her caginess ebbs, and she reaches for the second mug of Ebony as she lowers herself onto the love seat across from him. “How very enlightening. Well then, Ignis—er, may I call you that?”

“Certainly. What else would you call me?”

It had never really occurred to her to view him as anything other than the Citadel’s resident polearm authority, or  _The Strategist_  when his drills proved to be particularly grueling. “All right—um— _Ignis_.” She takes a long sip of her drink and lets the warm liquid pool on her tongue. “While I’m flattered to know you hold me in high enough regard to invite me into your home, I can’t help wondering what was is about me that drew your attention in the first place.”

He studies her for a moment, then adjusts his spectacles as he crosses one knee over the other. “It was your accent. You’re from the north, correct?”

“I am.”

“As am I. Hearing your voice takes me back to my childhood.” He drains the last of his Ebony and sets his empty mug aside. “The king was also reared there, although Noct was born in Crown City, which is why he talks like an uncivilized barbarian.”

She smiles at his quip, but the uncharacteristic openness of his demeanor perplexes her more than a little. “I must admit, it’s a bit unusual to hear you speak so candidly. At the risk of stroking your ego, I’m happy to report that the rumors about you being one-dimensional are quite unfounded.”

A tart expression touches his features. “My pride is positively  _basking_  in your adulation.“

“Sorry,” she laughs. “It’s just that your stuffiness inside the Citadel has a tendency to ward off more curious observers.”

“Is that what my pupils say about me? That I’m stuffy?”

“Only when you refer to them as fish bait.”

“All’s fair in the great battle between teacher and student.” He draws himself up off the couch and retrieves his empty mug, then stops beside her and gestures to her own. “Would you like a refill?”

She shakes her head. “Thank you, no. I fear even the one cup will result in keeping me awake for hours.”

His fingers brush against hers when she lifts her mug toward his outstretched hand; the way they linger there a moment longer than would normally be considered polite makes her heart skip an odd beat.

He appears not to have noticed her sudden diffidence. “I’ve found that sleep is highly overrated,” he says, as he moves back into the kitchen. “My friends find it endlessly amusing to chastise me for my Ebony habit, but you’d be astounded at how much free time one is able to accrue without the pesky requirement of regularly scheduled unconsciousness.”

She rises from the love seat as the sound of water splashes in the sink. “What  _does_  a man like yourself do with his personal time? Do you have a secret stamp collection I don’t know about, or is your bedroom as empty as your foyer?”

He shuts off the tap and returns to the living room. “Care for a tour of it?”

“Rather forward, aren’t we? You haven’t even given me a proper kiss yet.” She then offers him a wry grin. “Or am I too feminine for your tastes?”

She recognizes the audacity of her joke almost as soon as the words tumble out of her mouth; asinine banter during a sparring session was one thing, but alluding to his rumored personal preferences in the intimacy of his own home—a space she had been invited into in confidence, no less—was a line she had never intended to let herself cross. He closes the distance between them and touches a hand to her elbow, and she averts his gaze in anticipation of his ire.

But Ignis surprises her, because instead of promptly escorting her to the front door like she expects, he brushes his lips across her left cheek. “Not at all,” he says quietly. “My tastes are admittedly rather eclectic.”

It’s neither a confirmation nor a denial; knowing what she knew about Ignis Scientia, the redhead would likely never uncover the honest truth behind his veiled sexuality. But it doesn’t matter now, because the gentle pressure of his fingers tightening around her arm is causing her face to grow inexplicably warm, and she is suddenly viewing the strategist in a whole new light.

She finally forces herself to look up at him; his expression is one of friendliness, his magnified irises slightly softer than before. “Good to know.”

He then drops his hand from her elbow and strides across the living room toward a door on the far side of the apartment. When he holds it open for her, she tentatively follows him and tiptoes inside; it’s only after she’s taken a moment to glance around the tidy space—and is relieved to find herself in neither a stamp collector’s workshop nor a sadomasochist’s flagellation chamber, but a completely ordinary bedroom—that she allows herself to let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“The decor is inarguably drab,” he concedes as he stops beside her. “I don’t have quite the same eye for design as Prompto.”

She points to the singular personal artifact embellishing the otherwise stark walls—a set of gilded daggers crossed at the hilt, and mounted on a wooden plaque. “I’m surprised you don’t keep those locked away in whatever alternate dimension you store your other armaments.”

“A birthday present—Regis gifted them to me when I turned eighteen.” He moves to rub at a speck of dust on one of the blades with his shirt sleeve. “They couldn’t cut so much as a strand of candy floss, but at least they’re pretty to look at.”

Her inquisitiveness overrides any reservations she has about being in such close quarters with her superior, and she strolls past an ornate dresser before pausing at a framed picture perched on the end of it. As she peers down at the four adolescent faces that fill the image, she immediately recognizes the bespectacled youth hovering near the edge of the shot. “Look at your bangs!” she laughs, gesturing to the mop of brown fluff that envelopes his forehead in the photograph.  “What kind of friends would ever allow you to pass through the front gates of the Citadel with that kind of haircut?”

His cheek twitches in mild annoyance. “It’s rude to stare.”

Her lips spread apart into an earnest smile. “You have nothing to worry about. If I may be so bold, you’ve aged quite gracefully into your present form.”

He sniffs irritably, but the twinge of humor that laces his features is unmissable. “Your flattery is noted.”

She then glances back down at the image on the dresser. She knows all their faces; it’s part of her job, understanding who she serves under, and who she is assigned to protect. Gladiolus Amicitia, back before his mane grew wild and his skin was unblemished by either scars or tattoos; Prompto Argentum, a little on the plump side but no less endearing; and, of course, Noctis Lucis Caelem, whom she had seen brooding around the palace grounds on occasion but had never formally met.

She picks up the photograph and presses a finger to the prince’s visage. “I should like to ask for his autograph one day,” she teases. “Perhaps you could put in a good word for me?”

Ignis pushes at his spectacles to mask a grimace. “His head would never fit inside the Regalia again if I did.”

Her eyes narrow at him as she returns the picture to its proper place atop the dresser. “I wouldn’t have taken you for the sentimental type,” she says. “As a matter of fact, before tonight I might not have been persuaded to believe you weren’t actually a robot.”

“I find emotions to be more of a hindrance than an asset. Compartmentalizing things helps to keep a level head.”

“Is that why you’re so aloof around the Citadel?” She returns to his side and pinches gently at his shirt sleeve. “Are you even capable of feelings, or are the rumors about electronic circuitry running under your skin in place of joints true?”

“Of course I’m capable of feelings. I wouldn’t have a photograph of my closest companions displayed at my bedside if I were a heartless magitek soldier.”

The way his eyes harden behind the steely gaze he is leveling at her makes her heart pound, but she doesn’t let go; instead, she swallows her uneasiness and grips his taut bicep more firmly in her grasp. “Then why don’t you ever talk about yourself, Ignis? I’ve studied under you for months now, and I still don’t know a thing about you.”

A pause. “What would you like to know?”

“I suppose inquiring as to why you felt the need to enshroud your message in such secrecy is as good a place as any to start.”

His emerald irises linger on the hand she has clutched around his arm, but he doesn’t pull away. “I have a propensity for keeping the details of my personal life as private and confidential as possible. Surely that’s something you yourself can relate to.”

His observation is not unfounded; whispers surrounding her own proclivity for maintaining a cordial distance from her peers—and persistent male suitors—had circled back to her own ears, and she’d been content to allow them to perpetuate purely out of self-interest. “You and I have differing circumstances,” she says. “My job is not nearly as secure as yours.”

“Perhaps, but the reasons are the same. Maintaining an air of professionalism requires considerable precautions to be taken.”

She purses her lips for a long moment. “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“I was wondering if you’ve ever been married before.”

“Other than to my service to the crown? Not as of yet.”

“But you’ve involved yourself with other parties, correct?” Her mouth twists into a knowing grin. “The palace rumors don’t exactly paint you in a particularly…  _virtuous_  light.”

“I’ll have to double down on those pesky palace rumors.” He snorts softly and presses a finger to his spectacles. “There is record of intimate liaisons in my personal history, to be sure. I’m just a man, after all.”

Her fingers are still wrapped around his bicep; her mind urges her hand to release him from her grasp, but her heart has other plans for her wayward extremities, and she runs an open palm up his shoulder. “Did you really invite me to your apartment just to chat over a cup of Ebony?”

Her attempt at subtly is fruitless; he finally yields under her touch and pries her fingers away from his arm. “I didn’t have any ulterior movies behind my summons, if that’s what you’re implying.”

The blood in her veins turns to ice in an instant—perhaps the frozen corpse of Shiva has reanimated herself in ethereal form somewhere in the strategist’s coat closet—and she drops her hand to her side. “Forgive me,” she says quickly, burying her attention in the folds of her skirt to hide her embarrassment. “It was presumptuous of me to read into your hospitality like that.”

She isn’t looking at him; she can barely endure her own humiliation at having her advances unceremoniously spurned by the strategist, much less meet the judgment of his spectacled gaze. But she can see his feet shift toward her, and suddenly she feels the heat of his warm breath circulating against her forehead.

“Only because it would tarnish my reputation as a consummate professional,” he says quietly.

They stand in silence for what feels like an eternity; he doesn’t move to touch her, and she doesn’t glance up at him or dare to even breathe. “I suppose that would probably complicate matters a bit,” she whispers.

His light exhales against her skin only serve to amplify the burning of her ears. “Probably.”

“I recognize it’s rather unbecoming of me to ask you to put your respectability on the line in that way.”

“I’ve taken greater risks.”

She then swallows her reticence and meets his gaze with an uncertain one of her own. “Would you even  _want_  to pursue something? I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit to being slightly awkward about my intentions, and you’re a challenging person to read.”

His eyes convey a certain measure of restraint; he glances over at the fingers he is now tracing along the lines of her arm, until they reach the crook of her neck and brush back a lock of red hair behind her ear. Her spine tingles under his gentle probing, her heart beating furiously like a herd of Spiracorns stampeding inside her chest, and her breath catches in her throat when he closes the distance between his lips and hers.

It’s a chaste kiss; nothing excessively overt or sloppy, and it’s over almost as soon as it has begun. The eyelids she hadn’t even realized she’d closed flutter open, and she tracks his motions with inquisitive orbs as he moves to stand behind her. Her own feet are rooted in place, seemingly anchored to the hardwood floor by some invisible titan of the underworld—the Infernian, she presumes, if the heat pumping through her veins is any indication—and for a moment she fears her knees may give out entirely when he nuzzles his nose against the tender spot under her right earlobe.

She then feels a hand glide down her forearm and ensnare her palm. “Apologies for my ambiguity,” he says. “Hopefully I’ve managed to clarify things for you.”

Her small fingers tighten around his longer ones. “Quite.”

His other hand drifts to the base of her neck, brushing her fiery tresses aside and probing at the trio of buttons that fasten her blouse. Gooseflesh ripples through her skin when he teases the closures loose; she is sure his fingers must be losing circulation by now—she has them involuntarily locked in a vice grip—until he releases her digits and moves to press his hand to her abdomen. His chest is up against her back; she can feel the taut musculature of his physique through the thin fabric of her tunic and his slow, deliberate breaths warming her cheek.

The stillness of the strategist’s bedroom is in sharp contrast to fire roaring in her belly; he tugs on her sleeve and drags his lips across her bare shoulder, no more or less urgent than before. Her hands search desperately for something to hold onto, and she clutches at the pocket of his trousers; her eyelids then seal themselves shut when she feels the distinct sensation of his arousal hardening against the small of her back.

After a silent gasp escapes her lips as he rakes his teeth along her earlobe, and she can barely keep herself upright under his electrifying touch, she finally turns to face him. His lips tentatively meet hers, gently at first, then more insistent as she sifts her fingers through his hair. He tastes like Ebony and desire and all the things that make men of his astute intellect so delightfully tantalizing, and she can’t quite stop herself from nipping playfully at his tongue as she drinks in his flavor entirely. His strong hands are everywhere at once, tracing her jawline, running down her spine, slipping beneath the hem of her tunic, until he liberates her from the billowy fabric obstructing her upper body and discards it somewhere in the direction of the dresser.

She is already fumbling with the closures of his own shirt, her fingers trembling like a new Anak calf taking its first clumsy steps. When she can’t get the third button undone, he captures her hands in his own and lowers them. “Perhaps the Ebony I brewed was a bit over-caffeinated?”

“Sorry,” she laughs. “By the looks of it, you’d think I was a newly deflowered virgin.”

He finishes the task of unbuttoning his shirt and offers her a smirk. “Are you?”

She returns his quip with a grin of her own. “I suppose you’ll just have to determine that for yourself.”

He finally strips himself of the stubborn article and drops it to the floor; it’s only when she lays eyes on his bare chest that she realizes how toned his body truly is, befitting a trained gymnast of his caliber. Her hand immediately reaches for his chiseled curvatures, gliding over the sculpted muscles of his torso until her fingers eventually drift south and stop at the top of his trousers.

“I wonder,” she teases, as she coaxes the zipper loose, “just how many of your pupils have seen you in your birthday attire.”

“A mystery for the ages,” he demurs, and deflects her hand in favor of tackling the clasp of her undergarment.

In a maneuver he had clearly mastered countless times before, he frees her of her lingerie in mere seconds, and it’s her turn now to field his gaze. She shifts uncomfortably under his probing eyes for a brief moment, but her shame evaporates when he draws her to his chest and captures her cheeks in his strong hands. His kiss is less restrained than earlier, his ardor more insistent as he lowers his nimble fingers to clutch at her breasts; his lips eventually follow suit, and she grits her teeth in an attempt to thwart the moan bubbling out of her throat when she feels the warm sensation of his tongue encircling her nipple.

As much as she relishes in his expert touch, however, she doesn’t let him get very far; he was the one who invited  _her_  here, she surmises, so it’s only fair of her to do some of the legwork. She pushes him away and guides him to sit on the edge of the bed, then gestures for him to remove his shoes before he allows her to tug on the hem his pants.

“You’re certainly more ambitious than the other virgins I’ve deflowered,” he jests.

“You of all people should realize I’m a quick learner.” She kneels before him and traces her fingers under the elastic waistband of his tight boxer briefs. “The spectacles I pried off your face this morning certainly haven’t forgotten.”

She then grips at his smallclothes and releases him from the confining accoutrement; she’s been in enough intimate positions to know not to ogle directly at any bare skin for too long, but she can’t resist running a hand across the rigid flesh centered amidst his thighs. When he doesn’t immediately flinch under her touch, she shoulders his knees aside and positions herself more closely between them.

But then he does stop her, clutching at her red hair and gently pulling her away from her intended target; in a moment of hesitation that was rather unusual for him, his voice falters. “That’s… really not necessary.”

She briefly considers responding to his reticence with a cheeky quip; ultimately, she decides actions speak louder than any words her occluded mind could conceivably think up, and pushes onward to draw him fully into her mouth. He doesn’t let out so much as a silent groan, or thrust himself annoyingly against the back of her throat like every other paramour she’s erroneously entertained; she is, however, intimately aware of the sound of his breath shortening in his lungs. His fingers are still wrapped up in her hair, but instead of holding her back, they now twitch lightly with each caress of her tongue.

He’s bigger than she would’ve given a man of Ignis’ slender build credit for, but size has scarcely ever factored into her own gratification, and anticipating satisfaction on a first go around with a new partner is a lofty expectation besides. So she simply enjoys this private moment he’s offered to share with her, gripping his athletic thigh in one hand and supplementing her tongue strokes with the other. He allows his fingers wander down her neck and across her shoulders, taking great care never to buck his hips or choke her senseless with his rock-solid erection, until the firm pressure of his hands pushing her away from his equipment causes her to stop what she’s doing and peer questioningly up at him.

“It might be best if we switched places,” he breathes, as he draws her to her feet. “Wouldn’t want this night to end rather abruptly on my behalf.”

She gives him a teasing look, but lowers herself onto the bed and stretches out on top of the comforter. He seats himself on the edge beside her, running his fingers along her collarbone and breasts on his way down her abdomen, and then leans over to touch his lips to hers. His kiss is chaste once again, his hunger from before evidently having abated; she traces the outline of his jaw as the scent of his cologne swirls in her nostrils, until her hands get tangled up in the rim of his spectacles.

“Shall I take your glasses off for you?” she chides, as she watches him readjusts them. “Or are they a necessary part of bringing yourself to orgasm?”

“Not quite, but they may factor into your own enjoyment.” He then positions himself between the pleats of her skirt and focuses his attention on the zipper at her waist. “I certainly can’t manipulate what I can’t see.”

His hands move quickly, and soon he is tugging her garment down around her hips before casting it aside entirely. His face hovers near her belly and he fingers the black lace that encircles her thighs; the heat in her lower abdomen matches the warmth of his breath on her skin, and he finally removes the last barrier separating one another from sensual bliss.

But he doesn’t immediately plunge his spectacles into her nakedness like she is hoping, and instead tilts his face slightly to tickle the insides of her thighs with his cheek. She gnaws on her lip in displeasure at not having her earlier services reciprocated; when he continues to tease every inch of her skin with gentle nips—save for the one spot she desperately wants him to ravage—she arches herself up against his mouth to make her insistence known.

“Do try and be patient, Darling,” he murmurs. “Trust that I have a strategy in mind.“

She bites back a frustrated growl, and resorts to gripping the blanket beneath her to curb her annoyance. His mouth wanders back and forth between her legs and the surrounding area—always circling toward her arousal, but never quite indulging her in desire—until he places a single light kiss against her aching nub before moving disappointingly away from her nether regions to nuzzle her ear.

She opens her mouth to enlighten him on his grievous oversight, but the abrupt sensation of his long fingers pressing themselves inside her walls silences any intelligible argument she might’ve had. He lowers himself beside her, covering her slightly parted lips with his own and delving ever deeper into the folds of her warm flesh with a skillful hand. She releases her grip over the comforter and snakes her arms around his neck, drawing him closer than any mechanized gravity well could accomplish while simultaneously rocking her hips against his methodical touch.

An inkling of shame trickles down her spine when she feels her own wetness touch the insides of her thighs, but he doesn’t appear to mind; on the contrary, he uses her natural lubrication to his advantage, massaging her with a slick thumb as he drags his teeth along her collarbone. The pressure in her abdomen is building now, her body stiffening against his rhythmic probing—not too roughly, nor too gently, but just enough to encourage the momentum of her arousal ever onward—and even with her eyes closed, she can almost visualize the culmination of her ecstasy nearly within reach.

But a whimper escapes her when his hand disappears from between her thighs, and she glances up to see him parting her legs before nestling his narrow hips between them. The taste of bitterness floods her tongue—she was  _this_  close—and she turns her head aside to hide her disappointment.

It’s only after he rests his hands on either side of her shoulders that he peers down at her with a concerned look on his face. “Something wrong?”

He wouldn’t be the first lover to leave her unfulfilled; it was foolish of her to expect this  _strategy_  of his to bear any real fruit. Still, she heaves a sigh and pokes disinterestedly at the pillow beneath her head, her eyes suddenly absorbed in the details of the fabric. “Not at all.”

She isn’t looking at him when he grazes his lips against her ear, but she can feel the heaviness of his breath on her skin. “I asked you to trust me,” he whispers. “I won’t ask a second time.”

He says it not unkindly, but the seriousness in his voice causes her pulse to suddenly quicken; she has but a moment to see him toss his spectacles aside before lacing one hand through her fingers and guiding himself inside of her with the other.

There is clarity, she surmises, at the eye of every storm; even with her mind a chaotic jumble of longing and desire and frustration at the rapture he is withholding from her, she is able to lift the veil that clouds her thoughts and focus on the singular divine sensation of being penetrated by him. He’s as hot as forged iron and twice as hard, and only a man christened after fire incarnate could have scorched every fiber and cell of her being merely by bringing his weapon to bear.

Her green orbs widen as she clutches at his fingers, and she says his name; he has both of his hands wrapped around hers now, and he covers her lips with his own. But a kiss isn’t enough to silence her gasps, nor does pinning her wrists down stop her legs from slithering around his waist involuntarily, and it’s only when she has his slender hips captured in a vice grip between her thighs that he presses a palm gently to her forehead to ease her sudden trembling.

“Be still just a moment longer,” he says. “I’ll do my best to make it worth your while.”

She gives him an imperceptible nod, but she can’t even see him clearly, because his searing heat inside of her is causing the edges of her vision to blur. He reaches down to pry away the Malboro tentacles seemingly suctioned to his body, then slips a hand around the small of her back to angle her hips up toward his own; she resists the urge to question his logic or writhe beneath him without his consent, and instead allows him to shift his weight forward onto his forearms until he is positioned directly above her and the base of his shaft is wedged firmly against the most private and intimate part of herself.

This is not, she realizes as he begins to move, two idiots fumbling around like awkward Adamantoises in the throes of carnal passion; it’s a master study in Euclidean geometry, because  _of course_  it is, because Ignis Scientia has a strategy prepared for every facet of his existence, even in his approach to tasks as instinctual and intuitive as making love. He’s as precise with his flesh-and-blood lance as he is with a real one, and her fingers dig into the taut muscles of his back as her nub pulses furiously with each slow drive of his hips. She can’t bring herself to say anything, because her throat has tightened and she is physically incapable of expressing her ardor without sounding like a lumbering Garula in heat, so she lets the arching of her back and her own dripping fluids acknowledge the magic he is working inside of her.

His hands don’t stay at her waist for long; they are gripping her thighs, caressing her breasts, gliding over her shoulders and brushing aside a stray lock of red hair from her glistening temple. His lips don’t linger in any one place either, and instead nibble at her collarbone and neck while his movements inside her grow more deliberate, more precise, more methodical in their unwavering effort at bringing her to climax. Her aching nub is throbbing in agony now, his shaft just grazing the sensitive hood with his rhythmic strokes, applying concentrated pressure only long enough for her to relish in a brief instant of gratification before he’s backed off and left her desperate for more.

Any last vestiges of shame she felt at conveying her fervor evaporate, and she finally stops trying to conceal her moans from him; if anything, her newfound voice only serves to urge him onward, and her thighs return to his waist as she feels the pressure in her abdomen reach its tipping point. His forehead is pressed against her head now, his mouth covering hers in between each disciplined thrust, and she bites down hard on the thickest part of his shoulder when the first crest of her orgasm rips through her and tears her nearly in two.

He helps carry her through each subsequent wave, sustaining his movements until the convulsions that rack her body begin to abate. When her tremors eventually cease altogether, and her cries of ecstasy have run their course, he leans down and kisses her lightly on the lips; it’s only after she touches a hand to his cheek that she notices the light sheen of perspiration coating his brow, and she immediately realizes the monumental effort it must have taken him to restrain himself long enough to push her over the brink.

“You’re a man of your word,” she says, as she studies the planes of his bare face. “I ought to have known better than to underestimate a strategist.“

He snorts softly before pushing himself upright; after a moment, he moves to withdraw himself from her. But her thighs remain firmly wrapped around his waist, and he is unable make it farther than half an inch before she begins to pull him back toward her. “We can stop for the night,” he says. “I’ve already kept you out late as it is.”

“I’m not letting you get off that easily.“

“Getting me off isn’t the hard part.” He pats her legs as he tosses her a wink, but she refuses to relinquish him from her grip. “Really, Darling—it’s fine.”

“And if I insist?”

He hesitates; after several heartbeats, he gently pries himself from her clutches. She grudgingly releases him, wondering if she had turned him off somehow—it was hard to tell, when his obvious erection was still at full attention—until he gestures for her to kneel facedown on the bed. “If I may?”

For a brief moment, she considers denying his request; a submissive position was far from her favorite, and she’d spent many an evening staring at the length of her fingernails and pondering whether she’d left the stove on at home while some faceless paramour went to town on her backside. But she had already underestimated Ignis once tonight—and his inquiry was hardly unreasonable in light of his own generosity, besides—so she rolls over onto the comforter and tentatively props herself on all fours.

She can feel the bed shift behind her, and soon his hand is gliding down her spine; a shiver races through her as he traces the outline of her left buttock before stopping between her legs. He drags his mouth across her hips, pressing a finger inside of her to test her readiness, and she gnaws on the inside of her cheek to stop her cries from potentially disturbing the neighbors—or worse, the crown prince three doors down—all over again.

He then leans to rest his weight on the palm of one hand, his right arm parallel with hers; she can feel his warm chest against her back and his probing growing more insistent. “Is this all right?” he asks.

She responds not with words, but by lacing her fingers through his own; he withdraws the hand he has between her thighs, evidently content with his findings—how she is still soaking wet is entirely beyond her—and replaces his digits with the head of his shaft. A sharp hiss escapes her lungs as he eases more fully into her warmth, until the two have become one again and the mass of his body envelops her like a protective blanket.

For the first time tonight, she hears him utter a low growl; it’s scarcely audible over the creaking of the headboard, and had she been a less perceptive lover, she might’ve dismissed it as simply the sound of his apartment settling in on its foundation. But when she leans into him and clenches her pelvis muscles, he drops his head to her shoulder and lets out a gasp.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Just… give me a moment, if you would.”

The fact that he expresses remorse mid-coitus doesn’t exactly surprise her—this was Ignis Scientia she was dealing with, after all—but it’s  _how_  he says it that gives her pause. Because, in a way that was very unlike him, he had dropped the more formal  _My apologies_  he generally favored in day-to-day Citadel life, and his sudden loss of control in the heat of the moment is rather telling in her mind. She tightens her fingers around his own and tilts her face to his cheek; he responds by pressing his lips to her temple, and then pushes himself upright and takes a firm hold over her hips with both hands.

It’s only when he has regained his composure and resumes the slow and steady cadence of his thrusts that she realizes how intimate the position she is in can truly be. He isn’t yanking on her hair, or shoving her face annoyingly into a pillow; his draws his fingers down her spine instead, stopping occasionally to grip at her buttocks or reach underneath her to massage her breasts. A cry claws its way up her throat as he buries himself ever deeper inside of her walls, and she tilts her head down onto the comforter to stifle her moans; his chest is pressed against her back again, his arms braced against either side of her shoulders, and she can hear the sound of his breath growing ragged in her ears.

The mutual rhythm they find together is almost second nature, as innate and automatic as breathing; their bodies were made for each other, she decides, because her hips are at just the right angle to support his increasingly erratic movements, and his lanky torso is just long enough for his cheek to touch hers. She lifts a hand to caress his jaw, and soon he is kissing her neck, her ear, her lips; his trembling hands search for something to hold onto, until they find her outstretched fingers and entwine them in his own.

He is quiet when he climaxes; the only indication that anything in his behavior has changed is the staggered jerks of his pelvis and the teeth he has clenched around her shoulder. His fingers tighten and relax with each warm pulse flooding through her lower abdomen, until the light pressure of his chest against her back abruptly doubles in weight.

The pinching in her shoulder then softens, and he presses a tender kiss to the love bite he left behind before pushing himself upright and withdrawing from her. Her arms and legs suddenly turn to rubber beneath her, and she collapses onto the comforter in delirious heap. He doesn’t move to rest beside her like she expects, though; out of the corner of her swimming vision, she sees him stride across the bedroom and throw open a nearby window. As the cool night air nips at her bare skin, she surmises that a man who was the embodiment of fire needed some way to quell the inferno coursing through his veins.

She watches as he stretches out his long limbs, entirely unconcerned that his naked backside is on full display for her viewing pleasure. When the chill gets to be too much even for her, she peels back the comforter and slips between the sheets; he retrieves his spectacles and returns them to the bridge of his nose, and she can sense the aloofness that has come to define Ignis settle back in on his features. “I suppose you were right about the Ebony,” he says.

She frowns slightly at his cordialness, and lifts the blanket to hide her shame. “I suppose so.”

“At the risk of sounding like I’m trapping you here against your will, the next change of guard isn’t for another few hours. It might be best if you linger until then.”

“Of course.” She then bites her lip and hesitates. “Um, Ignis?”

He plucks his boxer briefs from off the floor and seats himself on the edge of the bed. “Yes, Darling?”

“I presume you’re not really one for pillow talk, but perhaps it might be worth it to discuss some things.“

“All right.”

“I’m… not entirely sure how we ought to conduct ourselves moving forward. At the Citadel, I mean.”

She eyes him as he stuffs himself inside his smallclothes. “I see no reason not to carry on as we have been, provided you’re willing to maintain a professional rapport. If you ever find yourself in the mood for more intimate company, you know where I live.“

“Is that an open invitation?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Her heart skips, and she can’t quite conceal the small smile that touches her lips. “Well then, it might be pertinent to lay down some ground rules.”

“To be sure.” He draws himself up off the bed and turns to face her. “What did you have in mind?”

“Are the hours disagreeable to you?”

“Not at all. I’m up late as it is.” He reaches for his trousers and steps into the legs. “Although you’re welcome to stay until the eight o’clock guard change, if you don’t care for stealing away like a thief in the night. Noct’s never up before eleven, anyway.“

“Best not to take any unnecessary risks. Four o’clock is fine.”

“Anything else?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t get into the habit of calling me ‘Darling’. Pet names are generally reserved for more…  _loving_  relationships, wouldn’t you say?”

He peers at her through his spectacles and shrugs on his shirt. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.”

“Is there anything you care to add?”

“Nothing I can think of.” He moves to stand beside her as he tackles his buttons. “So we are in agreement?”

She nods. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

“Splendid.” He then leans over and pecks her lightly on the cheek. “Can I get you anything? A cup of Ebony, perhaps?”

She runs a hand down his torso, offering him a mischievous grin as her fingers pause at the waistband of his trousers. “Not unless you plan on entertaining me for the next few hours.”

He hesitates for a long moment; then he is unbuttoning his shirt once again and discarding it on the floor. “I think we can come to some sort of arrangement.”


End file.
